Keegan 00 Soft Case (18 page)

“I gave you the fucking truth. It’s not my fault if you are too blind to see it,” I said.

“So you think this is some elaborate scheme to bust you? You think that everyone in the New York City Police Department is out to get you? Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

“No, this is ridiculous.”

“Very well.” Graves got up. “I see there is nothing more I can get from you.”

“You got that right.”

Graves walked away, and a uniform came and took me to where they book every other criminal. I went through the process of getting fingerprinted, getting booked, and being held in a cell for a few hours. I felt so small. They had taken my dignity from me. Sure, everyone felt similar when arrested for the first time, but I was a cop. It was like ripping out my soul. Luckily, I was alone in that cell.

I tried to get an idea of what was going on, and who was involved. In that rank, smelly cell, I ran through everyone who could have helped in this. Agnelli for sure, had something to do with it. After that, I came to dead ends. Geiger wouldn’t do something like this, and he certainly wouldn’t be on Agnelli’s side, not for anything. Rick might have set me up, that fit perfectly with his sickness. I didn’t think Rick had the balls, or the brains, to do it, though.

So I sat on that squeaky cot and stared at the bare toilet bowl, realizing that my life was being flushed down it. My father would say that I let this happen to me, that I didn’t pay enough attention to what was going on around me. He might have been right, too. It didn’t matter.

Every once in a while a cop or two would walk past my cell and mutter something. It was degrading. The worst part of it was, I hadn’t even done anything to deserve the treatment I was getting. If I had really taken the money, and had spent it on something worthwhile, then maybe, I might have been able to accept what was going on. My identity had been stripped from me, leaving only a bitterness toward the world.

Like I didn’t already have enough of that.

Thirteen

After about two hours, someone came to take me from the cell. People say this all the time, but they really were the longest two hours of my life. Everything had fallen apart. And the worst part was, I had done this to myself. I had no one else to blame for this stupidity.

I didn’t the guy who came for me, but he was a detective, judging by the clothes he wore. He took me to a desk, sat me down, and told me to wait.

“Detective Keegan,” a man said. It was Peters.

“Prick,” I mumbled.

“Don’t give me your attitude. You’re in deep shit.” Peters certainly appeared satisfied with himself. He always wanted to get me. And, to be honest, I would have relished if the tables were turned.

“Yeah, of course I am. Because I really did all of this.”

“Listen, I fought for them to let you go, so you don’t have to experience the humiliation of someone bailing you out. You’ve been put on suspension, so we’ll take you home, collect your guns and anything else pertaining to your position. You’ll be expected to sign yourself in with Agnelli until the department decides what they are going to do with you.”

I really didn’t listen to what he said because I still tried to digest what had happened to me that night. On top of that, I was completely exhausted and wanted to get some rest. I hoped that this was all a hallucination, caused by lack of sleep and an overdose of nitrous oxide.

“Whatever,” was all I could muster.

“I always figured you to be a hard case, Keegan.”

“Just get this over with, Peters, so you can go back to losing at golf in the back room. Cocksucker.”

He shot me a look, one of those “Who the fuck do you think you are” looks that I received so often. I smiled at him, mainly because I didn’t know what else to do.

Peters finished up some paperwork that I had to sign. It basically said that I was suspended until a complete investigation of what happened occurred. Which meant that I was screwed.

There would be no such investigation, and they would do whatever they could to get me to sell out Sondra Mullins. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they came up with dummy photographs with her and me in bed together. This was all ridiculous.

I signed the paperwork, thus ending my tour as a cop, got up, collected my belongings, which consisted of thirty bucks in cash, some small change, and the keys to my apartment. Actually, I think they shorted me five bucks, but I didn’t feel like bringing that up at the moment.

They assigned someone from Vice to take me home. He was an undercover cop, judging by what he wore, and he must have been told that I was an asshole, because at first, that was how he treated me.

We were driving in a Chevy sedan toward my apartment, when I decided to start a conversation.

“Weather sucks,” I said.

He just nodded.

“What, you undercover?”

He nodded again.

“I did that for a short time. Rough racket, I’ll tell you that much.”

He nodded, and I was about to smack him when he spoke. “Doing what?”

“Vice, mainly. We tried nailing dealers, but you know how tough that can be.”

“I do,” he said. “Name’s Kasim. John Kasim.”

“I’m sure you know mine.”

He extended his hand. I shook it. He was young, probably about 26, with dark brown hair and a goatee.

“How’d you get this gig?”

“Vice?”

“No, escort service. Taking me home.”

“Nothing else to do at the moment. I just came off a case. So I was pretty much the only one available.”

“They tell you the story?”

He didn’t want to answer that, I could tell.

“No.”

“They didn’t tell you that you were driving a dirty cop home? I find that funny.”

“Dirty?”

“It’s a long story. One you definitely don’t want to know.” “You really guilty?”

“Would I be talking about it if I was?”

“Guess not. I’ve heard of you before. You don’t seem like the type who’d go wrong.”

“And I’m not. I’m telling you, watch your ass around here. Something is going on.”

“What makes you think that?”

That, I didn’t want to get into. This guy seemed all right, but I couldn’t go around blabbing my suspicions to random cops. Plus, I really didn’t have a handle on the situation. I didn’t know who to point a finger at.

“Just a hunch, kid.”

“Our department? It’s one of the cleanest in the city.”

“Maybe so. Maybe not.”

“What they get you for?”

“Nothing. A whole lot of nothing. That’s why I am going home and not to prison. They want me to sit and think about what little they have on me, how they can screw me with that little bit of nothing. They want me to crack.”

Kasim didn’t say anything, just kept driving. They had told him the story, I knew that. They had told him I was a scumbag cop out for my own good. Okay, so I was a scumbag at times, and I was always out for my own good, but not when it came to my job. Now, I’m not going to start pontificating about how good of a cop I was, or anything like that, but what happened to me was completely wrong. Not that it hadn’t happened before, to other good guys. You see, guys like Peters got ahead because they went along. Peters knew I did nothing wrong, and still he complied with what the higher ups told him to do. I would never do anything like that, and that’s why this was happening to me. That’s why my entire world was coming down on me. One thing I knew for sure, someone else was going to help soften the crash.

We made it to my apartment, and Kasim stood in the doorway. He seemed uncomfortable coming in, doing what he had to do.

“I’ll get what you need,” I said.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I walked into my bedroom and got my ID and the other gun I had registered. I wasn’t allowed to carry anymore, that’s why they wanted the gun. This one was a standard Glock 9mm that everyone was issued and I never carried.

I walked back into the living room and handed the two items to Kasim, who looked down at them, like he didn’t know what to do.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault.” I looked him over. Something about him seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I figured I had seen him at the station before.

Kasim took the guns, and left. I stood in the doorway for a moment, everything hitting me all at once. I was tired, my jaw ached a little, and my future was completely uncertain. What a way to go to bed.

I hit the pillow, and the lights went out. I don’t remember what I dreamed about that night, but I know my dreams were violent, almost revolting.

Fourteen

I woke the next morning around eight, and started to go through the routine of getting ready for work, when I realized I didn’t have to. I sat on the edge of my bed, my head swirling, and started to cry. Yes, that’s right, I cried. I felt like a helpless little kid with no parents around to comfort me. No one could comfort me right then. Even if I had been married, my wife wouldn’t have been able to help. This situation was all my own, and I was the only one who could make it right, if I could even do that. I had lost my job because I hadn’t been careful. I blamed myself for not seeing the signs of what was happening. I know now that there wasn’t a thing I could have done, but right then, I was my own worst enemy.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed my last can of soda, and drank it. The refrigerator was bare, so I couldn’t even eat anything. I don’t think I would have anyway, because my stomach was unsettled to the point where I almost threw up the soda.

I decided to call the only person it was safe to call. Rick Calhill, the dirty bastard who sold out on me. He might not have been directly involved, but he had to know what was going on.

Before I got the chance to get to the phone, it rang.

“Yeah,” I said, eagerly awaiting to hear who was on the other end.

“Jesus John, What the hell is going on?” It was Rick. How coincidental.

“Nothing Rick. Nothing at all.”

“I heard about what happened yesterday.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, Geiger told me.”

“Did he now,” I said. I let the sarcasm drip from my tone. Rick had done me wrong in one way or another. I needed to let him know that.

“Yes.” He paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah, a little. I’m not going in today, though. Doc said to take a couple days rest.”

“How convenient.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t fuck with me. You know what I’m talking about.”

“I have no idea…”

“Cut the crap, Calhill.”

“John, seriously, I don’t know what you are talking about. I mean, I heard what happened, with you getting busted, um, taken in and all, but other than that, I don’t know a thing.”

“I find it hard believing that. Really hard.”

“Why?”

“You conveniently get sick yesterday, the day we are supposed to talk to this guy, and then I get taken. It just seems to coincidental.”

“John, get a hold of yourself. I know things are all fucked up now, but I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”

“Who told you to fake being sick?”

“No one.”

“Come on, someone told you to do it. Someone told you to be nowhere near me when this all came down.”

“Nobody did, I swear.”

“You had better stop swearing, or I’ll come down there and kick the shit out of you. Someone told you to do this, someone is behind all of this.”

“Did you ever think that it was Mrs. Mullins?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“She insists on seeing you the day this all comes down, alone, without me around. Don’t you think that’s a little strange? Don’t you think the whole way she acted when we were there was a little strange?”

Rick was making sense, but I didn’t want to hear it.

“That has nothing to do with what you pulled yesterday. Nothing at all. I want answers.”

“I gave you all I had. There is nothing else.”

“There has to be something else.”

“There’s nothing John. I don’t know what to tell you. I know that it seems weird that I got sick when all of this came down, but you have to believe me. You want a doctor’s note or something?” “This isn’t fucking grade school.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Forget it.”

I hung up the phone.

I sat on the edge of my bed, slowly rocking back and forth. I think I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown right then, only I wasn’t aware of it. If I would have been, I probably would have had it, right there. Fortunately for me, I didn’t pay much attention to my mental health.

You know, when you think about it, some days are just days. They really have no meaning, other than to bridge the gap between the important days of your life. For instance, at that moment, it had been two months since I’d had sex. I’m not saying that the sex was any good, that’s a completely different story, but I feel it is important to note that most of the days in between meant absolutely nothing to me. Well, the day before was the day I got fucked, but I don’t think that qualified as sex. At least not in my book. This day was just another day. A day to sit around, perhaps lie on my couch and stare at the cracks in the ceiling which, when looked at from the right angle, made an impression of Jesus Christ. I took that as a sign He was looking over me when I first moved in. Now I know that he really doesn’t give a damn. He obviously doesn’t believe in me and I don’t believe in Him. And yes, I know that I capitalized the “h” in “Him” despite the fact that I said I don’t believe in Him. Let’s just say that I don’t, but I am afraid He might hear me say that, okay.

So there I was, sitting on the couch and staring at cracks in the paint. Yeah, I was headed for the warm confines of a mental institution. I had reason, of course, to feel this way, and this was only made worse by the kid in the next apartment who kept ringing my doorbell because he knew I was home and wanted to play Cops and Robbers with me. He wasn’t a bad kid, I think his name was Jared, but he never understood the meaning of “Don’t bother me today.” The kid was on Ritalin. I saw his pills one time. Brown

and dirty looking, and he had to swallow three of those a day. I didn’t even learn how to swallow a pill until I was fourteen, and this nine-year old kid was practically a pill-popping junkie. I think his mother just didn’t want to deal with him, so she had some shrink prescribe the kid these pills to keep him out of her hair. Yes, the kid could be a pain in the ass, but I always thought that’s what kids were here for. I was a pain in the ass as a kid, and despite a few fluoride-overdose incidents, my parents never tried to do anything to remedy it. They just dealt with it. I remember reading somewhere that 20% of children were on mood-altering medication. Of course, we live in an age of medication. Why not let the kids join in on the fun?